


The Life and Lies of Sherlock Holmes

by schweet_heart



Series: BBC Sherlock Fic [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst, The Empty House
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Two and a half years after the Fall, John Watson has finally put his life back together. He’s dating Mary Morstan, has just published a best-selling book, and is the hit of every talk-show in London. Everything is perfect – except for the fact that it's a lie. Meanwhile, the Great Detective himself has had to go deep underground to root out the last of Moriarty’s network. Only one more link remains; a link that leads straight back to John…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during the hiatus after series 2 (oh god, so long ago) but got Jossed by series 3 so I stopped writing it. However, since I just finished series 4 and feel the need to fix pretty much EVERYTHING, I figured what the hell, I'm going to continue with it anyway. It goes AU from _The Empty House_ and has no more than a glancing relationship with canon (any canon) from there on out.

 

 

_“The first thing you have to understand about Sherlock is that he was…magnetic. I suppose all good conmen are. He wasn’t what anyone would call charming and he certainly didn’t attempt to ingratiate himself with people he considered beneath his notice. But he had a certain quality all the same. He was always so brutally honest. I guess people always find the truth compelling, even when it’s unpalatable. Which makes it all the more ironic, of course, that he turned out to be a fake.”_

\-- John Watson, _The Final Problem: The Life and Lies of Sherlock Holmes_ , Chapter 1.

 

**Prague, December.**

Sherlock is up and moving almost before the car is out of sight, shedding the thin grey blanket as he unfolds himself from his chair and makes for the stairs. It’s just after six a.m. and the city outside is grey, the falling snow leeching all the colours from the brickwork, the street awash in a kind of luminous half-dark that makes it tricky to judge depths and distances. The cold air nips at his face and fingers, in spite of his thick gloves, and even shoving his fists deep into his pockets does not mitigate the chill as he hurries down the snow-laden street.

He crosses the road at a slower pace, a few buildings down from the one he’s interested in, just in case there is anyone awake enough to notice a lone figure on the pavement at this hour of the morning. With any luck, by the time the flat’s inhabitant comes back the snow will have concealed his footprints, but if it doesn’t, he doesn’t want to arouse suspicion by seeming too interested in a particular building. Chances are, of course, the man won’t even notice he’s broken in. Most people don’t.

Getting in the front door is easy – all it takes is some ridiculous story about his girlfriend filching his keys and sending him home in a cab (Sherlock plays the drunkard disturbingly well) for an irritated resident to buzz him in just to get him to shut up. The building is old, a hundred years at least, limned with dark oak beams that crisscross the ceilings like shadows. There is a man on duty at the desk, but he’s watching the telly, and doesn’t seem to notice Sherlock as he pads quickly past. No doubt he assumes he had a key. So much the better.

It takes him a little longer to find the right room. He stops at the entrance and listens, hearing his own breath, the settling of the protesting timbers beneath his feet, and no other sound. There’s no one else about. He pulls his lock-picking tools from his pocket, strips off his gloves, and gets to work.

Picking a lock is like playing a piano or tuning the strings of a violin. Even when it’s not particularly complicated – and this one isn’t – it requires a delicate touch to be aware of the faint vibration when each tumbler slips into place, the whisper-click of the metal beneath your fingers. John, when he used to watch him do it, claimed that Sherlock went into a kind of Zen trance while picking locks.

“A bit not good,” he’d commented. “What if someone comes up behind you and clobbers you while you’re busy aligning your chakras, or something?”

“You can’t rush an artist, John,” Sherlock had replied. To which John responded that he wasn’t trying to rush him, exactly, but he would appreciate it if they could work on paying more attention to the watchman next time. Sherlock still maintains it was not his fault that they got caught: John should have been standing guard, instead of watching Sherlock’s face. But he had filed the lesson away for later, anyway – too much concentration can be a bad thing.

The lock gives way under his fingers. Elated, he straightens up and eases the door open, stepping neatly over the threshold and pulling it shut behind him with a quiet snap. The room is dimly lit, but all it takes is one quick look for Sherlock to realise two very important things. First, shutting the door was a very big mistake.

And second, someone is waiting for him.

 

-+-

 

There are two of them, it turns out, one sitting in the dark watching him and another who comes out of nowhere, a stocky figure blocking his route to the exit. Sherlock is smart enough to know when he’s been outmanoeuvred, especially when he can see the reflection of silvery light on the barrel of a gun.

“Please raise your hands in the air, Mr. Holmes,” says the seated man. Clear, precise English, no trace of Czech in the accent. Not a local, then. “My employer wants you alive, but he did give me permission to shoot you somewhere painful if you didn’t cooperate.”

Sherlock does as he’s told. It’s no good pretending to be a hapless burglar, he can tell that already; whoever these men are, they know him by sight, well enough to see through the hair-dye and the slump that he’s adopted since leaving London. The thug by the door takes his wrists and handcuffs them behind his back. Sherlock briefly envisions himself slamming him backward into the door and using the darkness as a cover to kick the gun from his colleague’s hands, but no matter which way he slices it the distance between himself and the sitting figure is too great to cover before the gun goes off. And there’s always a chance the man might kill him in the dark, whatever his intentions to the contrary.

“Does he have a name, your employer?” he asks, instead.

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

After that, all his questions are ignored, and Sherlock is marched back out into the hallway and down the staircase, the larger man walking close behind him, concealing his handcuffed arms. The other walks a little way ahead, the gun hidden somewhere on his body. He is small and slim and the definition of non-descript, his neat black suit high-quality but not distinctive, the back of his head revealing only that he uses rather too much product in his hair. He seems so perfectly ordinary. The man at the desk doesn’t even look up.

 

-+-

 

They take him to a car that is waiting outside the front entrance. It’s stopped snowing, but it’s still so bitterly cold that Sherlock is grateful for the warm interior, and almost doesn’t resent it when the stocky man leans over and fastens his seatbelt for him.

“I’m not a child,” he says sharply. There is no response. “If you’d un-cuff my hands, I could do it myself.”

The man shuts the door, and the two captors confer briefly outside the car. Eventually, the larger one nods, and sets off down the street, while his smaller colleague climbs into the passenger seat, and the car starts up. Sherlock has memorized the first six turnings and the names of three different streets before it dawns on him that there’s no point. He won’t be coming back this way again. Still, the stubborn part of his brain that insists on cataloguing everything continues to keep half an eye on their twisting progress, while he devotes the other half to considering what must have become of his quarry.

Arrested, possibly. Could be murder, but there were no bloodstains and he hadn’t seen anything that would indicate violence of the more lethal sort; probably not dead, then. What bothers him most is that they managed to fool him into thinking the flat was still occupied, when the layer of dust suggested it had not been lived in for some time. Sloppy. Worse than sloppy: _stupid_. He’d done what John was always warning him not to do – gotten carried away with his own cleverness. And now he was going to pay for it.

At last, the car stops. He is hustled out by the small man with the gun and directed up the steps into the lobby of an ancient-looking house, tucked discreetly between two larger and more formidable buildings whose purpose he is unable to determine. His last remaining captor – his face, it turns out, is as bland as the rest of his body – unlocks his handcuffs and gestures towards the second door on the left.

“He’s waiting for you,” he says, and vanishes up the stairs.

Sherlock rubs his wrists and takes a deep breath, straightening his spine. The carpet is plush and soft beneath his feet, muffling his footfalls as he walks towards the door and pushes it open. Beyond, he can see a large study, its walls lined with books, a welcoming fire blazing in the grate beneath an ornate fireplace. The open door reveals a desk in one corner, behind which a familiar figure is leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft greets him, with immense satisfaction. “Do come in.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Prague, December.**

 

Mycroft’s smug smile turns into a grimace as his brother moves into the light.

“Is that a goatee?” he demands, looking Sherlock up and down, taking in the ginger curls and unshaven chin. “And for god’s sake, what did you do to your hair?”

“I dyed it,” Sherlock replies, deadpan. Mycroft purses his lips.

“It looks like someone’s cat threw up on the rug. Sit down, won’t you. Would you like some tea?”

There’s a silver tea service on the edge of the desk, and Mycroft doesn’t wait for Sherlock’s answer before he stands up and starts pouring. Sherlock steps further into the room, noting the pale green wallpaper and matching curtains, the British flag pinned above the desk. An embassy of some sort, perhaps, some kind of official-unofficial meeting place. His brother’s home away from home.

“Close the door,” Mycroft says. He waits until Sherlock has done so and is seated in front of him before handing him the tea and sitting down himself. Then and only then does he fix his gaze on Sherlock’s face.

“You’re looking well,” he says. “For someone who threw himself off a building.”

“How long did it take you to figure out I was still alive?”

“Several months, I’m afraid. I first began to suspect it after Ellington disappeared, but by the time you brought down the smuggling ring in Tibet I was certain. Well,” he amends. “Almost certain.”

“Why almost?”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. “Simple. I didn’t see how you could have survived without my help. How did you manage it, by the way?”

“You’re not the only person in London who handles dead bodies on a regular basis.”

“Ah, of course. Molly. Very good – I wouldn’t have thought to look at her.”

Sherlock nods, accepting the compliment, and takes a sip of his tea. It is strong and sweet, two sugars, possibly more. Mycroft apparently thinks he needs looking after. He puts the cup back in its saucer.

“And you?” he asks. “I know you’ve been taking an interest in Moriarty’s affairs, so I assume that’s how you found me. What did you do with Kaufman?”

“Put him somewhere where he won’t be able to trouble us again.”

“Prison?”

“Of a sort. His fate is irrelevant. It’s the information he gave us before he was incarcerated that should concern you.”

“I should have known it wasn’t merely brotherly love that inspired you to track me down.”

“I assure you, that was a secondary motivation.”

“Come now, Mycroft. Don’t let us pretend you’re capable of fraternal affection. You need my help with something, something important. It must be big, for you to risk breaking my cover so unceremoniously like this.”

Sherlock is leaning forward now, elbows on knees, long fingers touching in an attentive V – an unconscious inversion of the man before him. Outside, the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of a leaking gutter-pipe punctuates the conversation. The situation is almost painfully _normal_ , right down to Mycroft’s insufferable smirk as he draws out the suspense for an inordinately long time.

Finally, Mycroft un-steeples his hands, laying them out flat on the desktop.

“Sebastian Moran is back in London,” he says, without inflection.

Sherlock’s nostrils flare. “You’re sure of this.”

“Quite sure. This was published the day before yesterday – but before that, we had it from Kaufman himself.”

He pulls a folded copy of _The Times_ from a drawer and drops it onto the table. Sherlock doesn’t touch it; he doesn’t need to. The headline is perfectly clear.

HON. RONALD ADAIR DEAD IN LOCKED ROOM MYSTERY.

“How?” Sherlock asks.

“Soft-nosed revolver bullet to the head. Extremely messy business. Our current theory is that Moran used a specially modified sniper rifle to shoot him – in his locked, seventh-floor office, mind you – from a building a few blocks away, explaining why there are no witnesses. The police, of course, are baffled.”

“Of course they are. But why would Moran go to London?”

Mycroft gives a sigh of impatience. “Why else? No doubt he suspects, as I did, that your spectacular suicide would be a convenient way to disappear while you take the rest of Moriarty’s gang out of circulation.”

“He wants to be certain I’m dead.”

“I have done my best to give the impression that I’m responsible for all of your little assassinations, but even I am not omnipotent. He is aware that he will be the next target. I assume he would rather remain at large.”

“So killing Adair is bait, to draw us out in the open? How droll.”

“That was my reading of the situation, yes.”

The smug smile is back. Mycroft taps his fingers on the wood, the picture of indolence were it not for his bright, ever-watchful eyes, while Sherlock remains canted forward, his neck curved over with the weight of deep thought. At last he looks up.

“What is it you’re not telling me?”

Mycroft makes a little moue of distress. “What makes you think there’s something I’m not telling you?”

“If it were only about the Adair murder, you could take care of it yourself. Why bring me into it?”

“For several reasons.” Mycroft finally sits upright, and makes Sherlock wait while he picks up his tea and takes a long sip. “After the death of Moriarty, Mister Moran inherited, shall we say, items of particular value to Her Majesty’s Government. Items which, were he to disappear, would be made public in a rather embarrassing fashion. A sort of insurance policy, if you will.”

“You mean he’s blackmailing you.”

“Call it what you like. The fact is, we can’t touch him.”

“So you want me to do your dirty work?”

“Essentially, yes. But before you refuse,” he adds, holding up one hand to forestall comment. “You might want to consider the full picture. We have reason to believe Moran is taking a special interest in…people you used to know.”

A pulse point thrums in Sherlock’s throat. “John.”

“He’s taken up a flat across from John’s new residence. I believe they’ve struck up something of a friendship.” Mycroft smiles at him with disarming congeniality. “Such discerning taste in friends, your Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock stands up, a motion so abrupt he almost knocks his teacup off the desk. Ignoring it, as well as Mycroft’s tut of disapproval, he turns and strides across to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“How could you let this happen?” he demands. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“My dear brother, your estimation of my capabilities is flattering, but as I said, I am not God. I didn’t learn of Moran’s return until a week ago, and after that I came straight to find you,” Mycroft’s tone remains maddeningly reasonable. “I don’t see why you’re complaining. Moran is the sole remaining obstacle to your resurrection, not to mention a threat to your precious Doctor Watson. Remove him, and you can get your life back.”

“And in the process, you get to keep your dirty little secrets all safe and sound. Oh, very neat, Mycroft.”

“Yes, well.” He catches Mycroft’s reflection in the mirror as he settles back into the chair and folds his hands over his chest. “It has a certain symmetry, I’ll admit.”

Symmetry is one word for it. Sherlock has several others. He turns away from the window.

“Fine. I’ll deal with Moran. But you have to take care of the rest of it, afterwards – the press, the cover story, all of it. I have no patience for those vultures.”

“That seems fair.” Mycroft agrees. He stands up, and begins gathering the tea things. “I can’t promise to keep them from harassing you entirely, but I will do my best. You’ll find a bedroom at the top of the stairs and to your right, with some clean clothes and a razor in the bathroom. I suggest you try to get some sleep while you can. I’ve booked our flight for seven this evening.”

Sherlock nods, but as he’s turning to go Mycroft stops him.

“One last thing,” he says, and something in the way he’s not looking at Sherlock suggests it might be important. “Just out of curiosity, why did you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“On the rooftop. I don’t imagine for a moment that was Plan A, or even Plan B. Far too convoluted. So what went wrong?”

Sherlock looks into his brother’s face. Mycroft’s lips are downturned at the edges, faint lines impressed into the doughy cheeks. He is still holding Sherlock’s nearly-full cup.

“He was a very practical man, Moriarty.” Sherlock says, the suppressed anger in his voice like the edge of a knife. “Quite ruthless. He left three assassins behind with kill orders – one each for Mrs. Hudson, John, and Lestrade.”

“But not for me,” Mycroft notes.

“No,” Sherlock says simply. “It’s possible he thought the British Government would be too well protected. Or perhaps he wanted to let you stew in your own guilt. An oversight on his part, no doubt.”

Mycroft’s hands tremble just slightly on the teacup, and he puts it down.

“No doubt you’re right,” he says, inclining his head.


End file.
